


How Much You Wanna Risk?

by AgentStannerShipper



Series: Puzzle Pieces [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Overstimulation, Sort of? - Freeform, Tuxedos, a whole mass of fluffy nonsense for chapter two, but not in a sexy way, double dates, greg gets a taste of high society, lots of teasing, mild homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2018-12-05 23:31:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11588415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: After so much stress, Greg and Mycroft finally get to relax a little.





	1. Not the Kind of Person That It Fits

**Author's Note:**

> Fic and chapter titles from Something Just Like This by Coldplay and The Chainsmokers.  
> This isn't turning into a Kingsman fic, I swear. They probably won't be in the rest of the series, but I needed them for this chapter because I was too lazy to make a bunch of OCs. This chapter didn't go precisely where I though it would, but I still think it's pretty good, so I hope you all enjoy.  
> As usual, not Brit-picked, so let me know if there are any issues.

“I am leaving my phone on, but I fully expect not to be disturbed tonight unless the world is actually ending,” Mycroft told Anthea pointedly.

She smirked, “Of course, sir. Tell Greg I said hi, won’t you? Assuming you can stop drooling long enough to form words.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at her, “You’re being awfully impertinent today.”

“Am I wrong, though?” she asked. “When you came back after the fitting on Monday, you were clearly distracted. Not that I blame you. Your man is good-looking enough as it is, but a little tailoring does wonders.”

“That it does,” Mycroft murmured.

_“I’m kind of afraid to touch it,” Gregory called out from the dressing room, which Mycroft took as his cue that they could enter. When he pushed open the door, Gregory caught his eyes in the mirror, his hands hovering by his sides as if he was truly frightened of coming into contact with the material, “Seriously, I’m pretty sure this costs more than I make in a year.”_

_Mycroft’s mouth went rather dry and he felt a bit faint. The mirror gave him an excellent view of Gregory’s front even as his position allowed him to admire his boyfriend’s back, and Mycroft body responded automatically, forcing him to take a few careful breaths to get himself back under control. Bridgmont smiled and stepped around him where Mycroft had frozen in the doorway, “It looks like it fits well, sir. Normally I’d have you in for a few more fittings, getting the pieces together just so, but Mr. Holmes did bring you to me rather late, so I had to make do. We’ll get it fixed up, though, don’t worry.”_

_“Make do?” Gregory said, incredulous. “This is probably the best-fitting suit I’ve ever worn, even without alterations.”_

_Mycroft reached deep into his chest and found where his words had fled to. They quivered when he released them, “I would have to agree with that, but Bridgmont is a professional. He’s a bit pickier than you or I.”_

_“Nothing wrong with wanting a job well done, sir” Bridgmont said._

_“No, nothing indeed,” Mycroft agreed. He heard Gregory chuckle, and lifted his gaze from his boyfriend’s arse to meet Gregory’s eyes._

_His boyfriend grinned at him, “See something you like?”_

_“I see a great deal I like,” Mycroft responded. He shoved his hands in his pockets, resisting the temptation to reach out and touch. Bridgmont would not appreciate Mycroft interfering with his work just because he wanted to run his fingers over every inch of Gregory’s body. The deep blue colour of the wool made his skin glow, and it accented the warmth of his brown eyes. Even without Bridgmont’s final adjustments, it clung to his frame, hugging his form much better than the cheap, off the rack suits the policeman wore to work did. Mycroft was fairly certain that when it was done, he would be hard-pressed to allow his boyfriend to leave the house wearing it._

_“Speechless with lust is a good look on you,” Gregory teased, apparently over whatever reservations he might have had about flirting in front of Mycroft’s tailor. Going back to work had been good for him; the policeman had gone a bit stir-crazy being cooped up in the house all week with Mycroft fussing over him, but returning to his standard routine had also marked a return to Gregory’s usual playfulness. “I might just let you dress me from now on, if this is the reaction it’s going to earn me.”_

_“Don’t joke about that unless you actually mean it, my darling, because I will absolutely take you up on it if it means seeing you like this every day.”_

_“If I wear this every day, I’m pretty sure you’d get tired of it.”_

_“I highly disagree,” Mycroft said, “but I’d never get any work done, so I suppose it would be an impractical choice.”_

_“Maybe just a bit,” Gregory laughed. “Still. I won’t be really happy until you’re properly suited up too. It’s not fair that you get to see me all dressed up and I don’t get to look at you.”_

_“I thought you liked my suits,” Mycroft said dryly._

_“I definitely do,” Gregory said, “but I can see you in a suit anytime I like. A tux, on the other hand…” He licked his lips, and Mycroft flushed._

_“The gala is Friday,” he said. “If you can be patient until then, I assure you it will be worth it.”_

_“Yeah it will,” Gregory smirked._

“Besides,” Anthea added, “I’m allowed to tease. After all, you _are_ abandoning me to be with your gorgeous lover.”

“You make it sound like we’re having an affair.”

“Aren’t you?” Anthea batted her eyelashes like a starlet in a melodramatic romance film, “All these years you’ve taken me to these things, but now you have Greg, and you don’t need me anymore.”

“I will always need you,” Mycroft said, his voice light but still more serious than Anthea had been. “That you can count on.”

Anthea rolled her eyes, “If you’re going to get sappy on me, then maybe it’s a good thing you’re going with Greg. I’d hate to throw up on a perfectly good dress.”

“ _Goodnight_ , Anthea.”

“Goodnight, Mycroft. Enjoy your evening.” Her smile turned just shy of lascivious, and Mycroft smirked.

“I certainly intend to.”

Gregory wasn’t home yet when Mycroft arrived, but a pair of garment bags waited. Each one was labelled with a sticky note marked by Anthea’s neat handwriting, and in addition to his name, Mycroft’s note read: _I thought a splash of colour would make you match better._

It wasn’t, strictly speaking, Anthea’s job to pick out Mycroft’s formal dress, as she wasn’t truly his P.A., but it seemed she had taken it upon herself to do just that. Mycroft cautiously unzipped the garment bag, and was relieved that she had not done anything too drastic. He recognized the tuxedo as one he had worn before, although not frequently. It was simple, mostly black, but with maroon lapels and accents. He made a mental reminder to thank Anthea later.

Mycroft busied himself with showering, and when he stepped out he could hear Gregory moving about downstairs. Clad in nothing but his favourite silk dressing gown, Mycroft ventured down, only to meet his boyfriend halfway when Gregory ascended the stairs. They stared at each other for a moment, and then Gregory broke into an easy smile and stepped up to the next stair, pulling them level so he could plant a kiss on Mycroft’s lips. “Sorry I’m a bit late,” he said softly. “Sherlock was being a drama queen.”

“Isn’t he always?” Mycroft responded, and Gregory’s grin widened.

“Fair enough,” he said. “What time do we have to leave?”

“Well, the doors open at six, which means we should be there by six-thirty. That gives us a little over an hour before we have to be ready to go.”

Gregory nodded, “We eating dinner beforehand, or…?”

“That was my intention, but if you’d rather eat there…” Mycroft winced, and Gregory picked up on it instantly.

“You thinking takeaway, or did you want me to cook?” he said without any further questioning.

“I’d prefer takeaway, unless you were absolutely dying to spend the evening in the kitchen instead of on the sofa with me.”

“You going to wear the dressing gown?” Gregory asked cheekily.

“I’m considering it,” Mycroft teased back.

“And nothing else?”

“I had no intention to get dressed yet, no.”

“Then definitely the sofa,” Gregory said. “Why don’t you order from wherever you want while I change into something more comfortable?”

“That sounds highly agreeable,” Mycroft said, and stepped around his boyfriend to do just that.

Curling up on the sofa with Gregory, running his fingers up and down the sleeve of the soft jumper his boyfriend had donned, with a box of takeaway resting half-eaten on the table, was probably the best afternoon Mycroft had spent in a long while. The last time he could remember being so relaxed, without anxieties about food or Sherlock or work gnawing at him incessantly, had to be at least three weeks ago. It did not escape his notice that the scenario had been similar to the one he was in now, although even then there had been worries about the gala itching under his skin. Now, he was just looking forward to showing off his boyfriend for the first time.

Gregory’s fingers toyed with the hem of his dressing gown, leaving Mycroft’s skin burning in their wake. “What exactly should I expect tonight?” Gregory asked quietly.

“To what are you referring?” Had Gregory’s tone been more playful, Mycroft might have matched it, but he heard the serious note in his boyfriend’s voice and responded in kind.

“I haven’t exactly been to a party like this before,” Gregory said.

“Surely Scotland Yard has hosted similar events.”

Gregory’s free hand rubbed the back of his neck, “Well, yeah. But that’s not really on the same level, is it?”

“No, I suppose not,” Mycroft agreed. “You have nothing to worry about, Gregory. There’ll some drinking, a bit of dancing and socializing, and of course the silent auction will be running most of the night to raise money for the Hart Foundation.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, it used to be run by Harry’s parents under the name ‘Have a Hart,’ which if you ask me is a bit tacky.”

Gregory snorted a laugh, and Mycroft continued, “Now it is just the Hart Foundation. They’re not so much a charity in and of themselves as they donate to various other charities. I’m not sure if Harry has taken it over entirely, or if he is merely back on the board, but as he is hosting the event I have to assume he is once again involved. But I really don’t want you to bother with the auction. I can handle that bit. I know the people, I know their habits, and anyway I’d rather you not spend the evening stressed because you’re thinking about money again.”

“I’ll be fine,” Gregory nudged Mycroft’s side. “I know I’m not exactly ‘high society,’ but I’m sure if I’m really overwhelmed there’ll be a corner somewhere I can hide.”

“We can always leave if it gets to be too much for you,” Mycroft said. “Although, if it’s any comfort to you, rumour has it that Harry’s new husband is not precisely what you might call ‘high society’ either. If you can’t find me, perhaps he might be a viable option to talk to.”

“Do you even know what he looks like?”

“I don’t have a clue, but I’m sure Harry will introduce him. It’s only proper.” Mycroft could have found out anything he liked about Harry Hart’s partner, but it felt like a waste of resources, so far removed was it from his day-to-day life. He’d also been invited to the wedding, but he hadn’t attended. As a general rule and with very few exceptions, Mycroft Holmes didn’t do weddings.

Gregory was silent for a long moment, and Mycroft frowned, but before he could ask his boyfriend what was wrong, Gregory asked, “Does it ever bother you?”

“Does what ever bother me?”

“That I’m…you know…not…refined and stuff.”

“I thought I made it perfectly clear to you that social class means absolutely nothing to me, Gregory.”

“Yeah, I know.” Oh, Mycroft really hated that note of self-doubt in his boyfriend’s voice. “But it’s gotta be easier, being with someone who’s more on your level. Someone who knows the etiquette for stuff like this, who isn’t going to embarrass you by saying the wrong thing or using the wrong fork or whatever.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Mycroft said sharply. “I’ve never fallen in love with someone ‘on my level.’” He put a bit more acid into the words than was probably necessary, but he couldn’t help it. “I fell in love with _you_ , Gregory, and I would not change a single thing about you. Nor do I think you will embarrass me.”

“But what if-“

“No. Gregory, darling, listen to me. Your occupation, your life, requires you to behave with a certain level of dignity and respect. So long as you maintain that, I don’t care what anybody else says. They’re a bunch of tedious bores anyway, with too much money and not enough compassion. You’re far too good for them.”

Gregory looked surprised, like he hadn’t expected Mycroft to be so passionate about it. Mycroft reached down to the hand Gregory had on his leg and removed it so he could lace their fingers together. More gently, he said, “I love you. I don’t think being with anyone else, regardless of who they are, would be ‘easier,’ as you put it, because they would not be you, and you are the only man I want in my life. Now and forever.”

Gregory leaned over and rested his forehead gently against Mycroft’s, squeezing his hand lightly, “You sure? Forever’s a really long time.”

“No length of time will ever be enough with you,” Mycroft responded. It felt like too much, too deep an admission, but Mycroft had come so close to losing him, and after something like that it felt stupid not to say it just because he was frightened. “I will gladly take every moment you can give me, and I will cherish each and every one of them.”

“Christ,” Gregory said softly. “Yeah. That sounds about perfect.” He pulled away, and blushed, “Uh, I feel the same way. In case it wasn’t obvious.”

“I know,” Mycroft smiled. He stood up, “I think it’s about time to get ready. I don’t know if you noticed the garment bags in the front hall?”

“I saw them. You want me to get them?”

Mycroft nodded, and Gregory unwound himself from Mycroft and stood up. He dropped a kiss on Mycroft’s lips, and then went back out into the hallway. Mycroft followed him, and when Gregory offered him his bag, he took it. Gregory made for the stairs, but when Mycroft made to go up after him, his boyfriend blocked the way, “Why don’t you change down here?”

Mycroft frowned, “Why?”

“Because I’m a bit worried that if we both get dressed in the bedroom, at least one of us is going to get ideas, and we might not leave at all tonight.” There was a playful sparkle in Gregory’s eyes, and Mycroft conceded his point.

“I’ll see you in a moment, then.”

Gregory smirked, “Be right back.” He disappeared up the stairs.

Mycroft didn’t change in the hallway; empty house or no, he wasn’t an animal. He stepped into one of the downstairs bathrooms instead, slipping off his dressing gown and pulling on the pieces of his tuxedo one by one. Anthea had chosen well. The fabric hugged his shoulders, but didn’t emphasize his stomach, which allowed Mycroft to relax a bit. He adjusted the pocket square, briefly ran a hand through his hair to ensure it would lie flat, and bit his lip. He still wasn’t entirely sure what Gregory saw in him, but he was moderately confident, given his boyfriend’s reaction to the last tuxedo Mycroft had worn, that Gregory would be equally impressed with this one.

He stepped out of the bathroom when he heard Gregory’s footsteps on the stairs, not wanting to miss a moment of the final reveal. Gregory looked surprisingly shy as he descended, tugging at the ends of his jacket, his bowtie still loose and untied around his neck. Mycroft met him at the base of the stairs, his breath caught in his throat. “Good?” Gregory asked, his voice hardly above a whisper.

Good was so far of an understatement that it took Mycroft several attempts to speak before he gave it up and instead curled his fingers around the back of Gregory’s neck, pulling him close for a heated kiss. His boyfriend startled at the gesture, and then melted into him, bringing his hands up to cup Mycroft’s face. When they broke apart, Mycroft wasn’t the only one who was breathless. “I guess so,” Gregory managed, panting slightly.

“Darling, you look…” Every word in Mycroft’s extensive vocabulary fell completely short of how indescribably beautiful Gregory looked. He settled on “absolutely bewitching.”

Gregory’s nervous expression shifted into a grin, “Bet I don’t look half as stunning as you do. Christ, you’re gorgeous. The red really brings out the colour in your hair.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You really should.” Gregory pulled him closer with a hand at his waist, “Everyone knows redheads are fucking hot.”

“Should I take that as a double entendre?”

“Absolutely.” This time it was Gregory pulling him in for a kiss, his grip on Mycroft’s waist tightening. Mycroft took the opportunity to slide his hands over his boyfriend’s shoulders, the fabric soft to the touch over Gregory’s lightly-muscled frame. The thought that he could stand there forever, just touching his boyfriend as Gregory claimed his lips passionately, was what prompted him to pull away, flushing when Gregory tried to pull him back.

“Stop that,” Mycroft said. “Shall we revisit your comment about not leaving tonight?”

“Sounds brilliant to me,” Gregory smirked, but he released Mycroft.

Mycroft’s flush deepened, and he busied himself with fixing his boyfriend’s bowtie, “Surely you can tie one of these yourself?”

“I’m a bit out of practice,” Gregory responded. “Figured I’d just end up mangling it and you’d insist on redoing it anyway. This just saves us some time.”

“Fair enough.” Mycroft tugged it tight and adjusted it, then stepped back and studied it with satisfaction. “Perfect.”

“Appropriate arm candy material?”

“If you don’t get at least half a dozen offers for unsolicited sex, then Sherlock’s the Queen of England.”

“Drama queen of England, more like,” Gregory murmured, still grinning. “You going to be one of those offers?”

Mycroft couldn’t resist teasing him, and so leaned in close enough to feel Gregory’s racing heart and whispered in his ear, “If you’re very good tonight, maybe you’ll find out.”

He could physically feel the shudder that ran through Gregory’s body, and pulled away, smiling in satisfaction. Gregory’s pupils were blown as he stared at Mycroft, not quite shocked but bordering on it. “Christ, love, I thought you wanted to leave tonight.”

“I do.”

“You’re doing a hell of a job convincing me otherwise.”

“I’m sure the car is waiting by now. Come on,” Mycroft tugged his boyfriend towards the door.

He flicked Gregory lightly at his boyfriend’s muttered, “Oh, I intend to,” but he couldn’t entirely hold in a snicker. Gregory nudged him back, and held open the car door for Mycroft to climb into. He was a perfect gentleman for the rest of the ride as well, politely keeping his hands to himself, although Mycroft noticed his hand twitching towards Mycroft’s leg several times. He smiled to himself. It was shaping up to be a very good evening indeed.

***

Greg had to stop and stare up at the frankly enormous house, no, _mansion_ when he stepped out of the car. “The Hart estate,” Mycroft said casually, coming up to stand beside him. “I was a bit surprised to find it was being hosted here this year. Generally speaking, the Harts only do private dinner parties at their residences, a sort of elitist gesture.”

“This is their house?” Dumbstruck felt like the most accurate word for the moment. Greg felt a bit frozen in place.

“Well, Harry’s parents live here. Harry, as far as I’m aware, lives somewhere in the city.”

“It’s bigger than your house.”

“Well spotted,” Mycroft’s voice took on a tinge of amusement. “Truly, I can see why they consider you the best that Scotland Yard has to offer.”

Greg turned to him. Mycroft’s smile was light and teasing. His hands were tucked into his pockets casually, and Greg felt his heart skip a beat at how beautiful he looked, framed by moonlight and the gentle blue backdrop of the steadily darkening sky. He cleared his throat, “Just caught me off guard, is all.”

“We won’t have opportunity to see most of the house, I imagine. Unless we planned on sneaking away and making use of one of the many spare bedrooms.”

Tempting as that was, Greg shook his head, “I don’t think I could have sex in a stranger’s house.”

“Who said anything about sex?” Mycroft’s poker face was incredible, but he allowed the tiniest hint of a smirk to shine through. He offered his arm out the Greg, “Shall we go in?”

Greg took it, wrapping his hand around the crook of Mycroft’s elbow, “Ready when you are.”

Mycroft led him up the steps as the car pulled away behind them. As they approached, Greg could hear light music and laughter drifting out from inside. The doors were thrown wide and a man, presumably their host, stood just inside them, flanked by a bald man in what looked like a skirt. As they got a bit closer, Greg saw that it wasn’t a skirt at all, but a kilt, accompanied by what Greg figured was probably formal Scottish attire. He also noted with a bit of alarm that the other man, who was dressed in what Greg would consider more standard British formal wear, was also sporting an eyepatch. He glanced at Mycroft, whose face remained perfectly neutral, and fought to keep his own expression the same.

When they stopped in front of the two men, Mycroft smiled, “Harry Hart. Thank you for inviting me again this year.”

Greg dropped Mycroft’s arm when Harry reached out to shake Mycroft’s hand. “How could I not?” he smiled brightly, “It’s a pleasure to have you here, Mycroft.” He dropped Mycroft’s hand and put his own on the shoulder of his companion, “Allow me to introduce my husband, Merlin.”

It took a great deal of effort for Greg to mask his surprise at such an unusual name. Mycroft shook his hand as well, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Merlin responded, his voice rough with Scottish brogue.

“And what about your lovely companion?” Harry asked casually, glancing at Greg with his good eye. “Excellent choice on the blue, by the way.”

“This is my boyfriend, Gregory,” Mycroft introduced him.

When Harry offered him a handshake, Greg took it carefully. “Hi,” he said softly. “Mycroft’s told me a lot about you.”

Harry laughed, “Has he now?”

“I’ve told him as much as I know,” Mycroft said smoothly, “given that no one knows what you’ve been up to the past few decades.”

“Oh, I was busy seducing the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met,” Harry said flippantly and with a smirk. Merlin rolled his eyes. “Do enjoy the ball.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft took Greg’s arm again and guided him inside. Greg let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“The eyepatch…”

“I have no idea,” Mycroft responded. “He’s always been a bit eccentric, so I couldn’t tell you if it’s his idea of fashion, or actually practical.”

They entered a larger room, the front hall sweeping off in three directions. There was a white marble staircase, the kind Greg thought only existed in castles and romance films, a broad stair that split in two and wound to the next level of the house. On either side of the base of the stairs, wide doorways were flung open into rooms already filling with other guests. Music came from one side, a soft piano playing in the background.

“I think I need a drink,” Greg mumbled as he took it in. He’d expected it to get overwhelming at some point, but this was just his first taste of the decadence and already it was starting to be a bit much.

Mycroft laughed softly, “Why don’t we find a place to sit down first, and then we’ll find the bar?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

They maneuvered their way through the throng of people in the room with the music until they got to the tables set up along the side. Most were empty, as people were still mingling and chatting, and a few dancing already. The blond kid Greg recognized from their first visit to Kingsman, dressed in an almost alarmingly yellow tuxedo with black accents, a colour which Greg thought wouldn’t look good on anybody but somehow managed not to wash him out, was out on the dance floor, laughing and spinning a girl in a flowing red dress and stiletto heels sharp enough the be used as a weapon.

Given Mycroft’s position and his vague assertions that Kingsman was likely a front for something, Greg wouldn’t have been surprised if the girl knew a few different ways to kill someone with her shoes. Or maybe Greg was just starting to become a bit paranoid.

Mycroft sat him down and said, “I’ll be right back. Did you have a preference, or will anything suffice?”

“I trust your judgement.”

“I should hope so,” Mycroft smiled. “I’ll be right back, darling.”

He returned shortly and handed Greg a glass of red wine, sitting down and placing his own matching glass on the table. Greg raised his eyebrows, “Didn’t peg you as much of a wine drinker.”

“I’m not, usually. But the Harts don’t have a proper appreciation of good scotch, and Harry apparently pays an alarming amount of attention to the proper making of martinis.”

Greg snorted and took a sip of the wine. It tasted fine, but Greg really couldn’t tell expensive wines from cheap ones. “Regular James Bond.”

Mycroft did not laugh at the joke, instead pursing his lips and looking away. Greg decided not to ask, and changed the subject, “Probably should have taken a dance class before coming here.”

“You don’t have to dance, Gregory. It’s not a requirement.”

“What if I want to?”

Mycroft studied him, frowning like he hadn’t expected that. “Do you know how to waltz?” he asked finally.

Greg shrugged, “I know some basics. Probably could do okay if you led. Probably wouldn’t step on your feet.”

Mycroft was silent a long moment, still frowning. Then he said, “You really want to dance with me?”

“I mean, not right now,” Greg rubbed the back of his neck. “But…at some point tonight, kind of, yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s fun?” Greg said. “Because you look hot as hell right now and I want to show off to everyone that you’re mine? Because that’s what you do at a thing like this? I don’t know, take your pick.”

Mycroft blushed slightly at the compliment, but he composed himself quickly and said, “I don’t generally dance at these functions unless Anthea makes me.”

Greg leaned forward, sliding his foot along the floor until it nudged against Mycroft’s. “Anthea’s not here right now,” he murmured. “But I am. And you’re gorgeous.”

Mycroft blinked, and Greg took the opportunity to kiss him, not quite a chaste kiss but not a proper snogging either. They were in public, after all, and Mycroft wasn’t the only one allowed to tease.

Someone above them cleared their throat, and Greg and Mycroft broke apart. The woman looked vaguely familiar to Greg, but he couldn’t place her. She was older, at least their age but probably close to a decade more. Her white-blonde hair was done up in a bun, and a string of white pearls stood out against the sharp blackness of her dress. When Greg glanced at Mycroft, it became abundantly clear that his boyfriend knew her, going by the slightly concerning pallor his face took on as he stared up at her.

She took a seat on Mycroft’s other side, leaning casually against the table and crossing her legs neatly. “Well then, Mycroft,” she said. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

Mycroft opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He stared down at the table, and Greg took the initiative. “Greg Lestrade,” he said, holding out his hand for her to shake. “And you are?”

She took his hand, her grip surprisingly firm. “Lady Alicia Smallwood.”

Oh. Greg remembered Mycroft mentioning her. “You work with Mycroft,” he said before he could help himself.

She didn’t look surprised that he knew, although Greg wasn’t sure if that was truly the case or if she was just hiding it well. She glanced at Mycroft, “You know, you could have said something.”

Mycroft finally found his voice, “Our business relationship was strained enough. I didn’t want to jeopardize it by further alienating you.”

“Fair enough.” Lady Smallwood nodded, “Although you could have said. Propositioning a gay man seems a bit tasteless. Especially when he’s otherwise involved.” Her eyes flicked back to Greg and she asked, “You aren’t married, are you?”

“Gregory is my boyfriend, not my husband,” Mycroft said, although Greg noticed him twisting the ring on his finger.

“Been dating long?” When Mycroft raised an eyebrow, she said, “Oh, there’s no need to get touchy. We’re off the clock.”

“I’m not sure my relationship is your concern,” he said carefully.

“Mycroft,” Greg said softly, catching his boyfriend’s attention. “It’s okay,” he said, trying to convey with only his eyes and those two words that Mycroft could share if he wanted to. He understood, based on the interaction, that there was more going on than he could see, but he didn’t want Mycroft to feel boxed in by him.

Whether Mycroft understood or not, he did not say anything further to Lady Smallwood, and she seemed to take his silence on the matter as her cue to leave. She stood up and nodded politely to Greg, and then said to Mycroft, “I’ll see you at work, then.”

“I sincerely hope not,” Mycroft said with the tiniest hint of a smile. She returned it, and strode off across the floor. Once her back was turned, Mycroft slumped down in his seat, looking abruptly exhausted.

“You alright, love?” Greg asked.

“All things considered, that could have gone much worse.” Mycroft sighed, “I wasn’t expecting to see her here. She doesn’t usually attend.”

“I’m not going to ask, because I know it’s a work thing,” Greg said, “but if you want to talk about it you can, okay?”

“Lady Smallwood is…difficult,” Mycroft said. “She’s the closest thing I have to what you might consider a friend at work, although generally speaking we don’t come into contact unless something truly unfortunate is happening, but she is also very…dominating. Truth be told, she makes me a bit uncomfortable. And I always seem to be tired after dealing with her.”

Greg laughed and rubbed his hand soothingly over Mycroft’s shoulder, “Some people are like that. But at least she’ll stop hitting on you now.”

“Yes,” Mycroft mused. “That certainly is a bonus.” His calm words were betrayed by the fact that he threw back half of his glass of wine in one go.

Greg pulled it out of his reach. “Tempting as it probably is to get sloshed right now, I’d really rather you mostly sober tonight.”

“Oh?”

Greg scooted forward in his chair, sliding his knee between Mycroft’s. He rested his hands on his boyfriend’s thighs, just shy of indecent. “Remember that thing about taking advantage?”

“Mmm,” Mycroft hummed vaguely, clearly distracted by the proximity.

Greg slid one of his hands a little higher up, and Mycroft squirmed slightly. “Nothing’s happening tonight if you’re drunk, sweetheart,” he murmured.

“Does tipsy count as drunk? Because it really wouldn’t be fair of you to deprive me of alcohol all night.”

Greg laughed and withdrew, “I have a feeling we might need a little alcohol to get through this.”

“You have no idea,” Mycroft muttered. He took another swallow, much smaller than the last, and stood up, “Come on, then. As preferable as it is, lurking in the corner all night isn’t good manners.”

Greg stood up with him, snagging his own partially empty glass, and took Mycroft’s arm, “This the part where you show me off?”

“Among other things. I hope you’re prepared to be horribly objectified.”

Mycroft wasn’t joking. As he chatted politely (and gave Greg an excellent first hand example of the difference between Mycroft’s genuine and false smiles), nearly half of the other guests didn’t so much as look at Greg, much less attempt to speak to him. Even their dates, mostly women in revealing, slinky dresses and a handful of men in bland black tuxedos, eyed Greg suspiciously and did not make conversation. The few who did speak to him did so with a great deal of condescension, generally asking him his occupation, and none seemed impressed with his answer. He drained his glass a wine a bit more quickly than he probably should have, but Mycroft did the same, so he figured it wasn’t so bad. The alcohol made his head pleasantly light and made dealing with the stuck-up pricks mildly amusing and not horribly irritating.

As they turned away from a badly aging man who had a few choice comments about Mycroft having a male partner, his clearly much younger wife looking miserable and shooting them apologetic looks, Mycroft grit his teeth, and Greg squeezed his arm gently. “He’s at the wrong party. Think he knows about the host’s husband?” It was meant to come out as a light joke, but it didn’t have the intended effect.

“He shouldn’t have said that about you, Gregory.”

“You’re the one who said the lot of them were pricks, love. And I’ve heard a lot worse, believe me.”

“He suggested I was hiring you for the night.”

“Are you forgetting who I was married to? Trust me, some bloke thinking I’m an escort doesn’t really matter to me.”

“It matters to me!”

Greg pulled Mycroft into a corner of the room and faced him, “Talk to me. Why is this upsetting you so badly? You normally brush this sort of stuff off.”

Mycroft sighed, and Greg threaded their fingers together, waiting for him to speak. “I don’t know,” Mycroft said softly. “I don’t know why it suddenly seems to matter to me today. Maybe I was lulled into a false sense of security, knowing Harry was gay. Maybe seeing Alicia shook me up more than I anticipated. I don’t know. But what I do know is that you deserve better than…than some alcoholic with a string of mistresses and a gambling problem making false and frankly insulting judgements about your life!”

“Wow. You been bottling that up long?” Greg squeezed Mycroft’s hand tighter. “Love, what he thinks doesn’t matter to me. It’d be different if he was someone I knew, someone I cared about, but he’s not. The only person in this room whose opinion I care about is yours.”

Mycroft leaned into Greg, and he wrapped his arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders. Eventually, Mycroft said, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“It’s hard for me to listen to people talking about you like that. I’ve heard plenty of comments directed at myself over the years and I’ve learned to deal with them, but I don’t like not being able to defend you.” Mycroft looked more irritated than angry, which Greg took as a sign he was calming down. “You know, under any other circumstances I would, but here-“

“I get it,” Greg assured him. “Fancy party, can’t exactly cause a scene.”

“Precisely.” Mycroft deflated, and his lean against Greg became more pronounced.

Greg guided him over to the nearest table, “Sit down for a while. I’ll get us another couple of drinks. Okay?”

“That sounds acceptable.”

“Alright.” Greg pressed a quick kiss to Mycroft’s lips and went off in search of the bar. He found it reasonably quickly and ordered another two glasses of wine. He was far from an expert, so he went with the bartender’s recommendation and got out quickly.

He was crossing the lobby when a blur of yellow nearly collided with him, sending both glasses crashing loudly to the floor. Greg steadied the young man who had almost knocked him over. “Where’s the fire?”

“I’m so sorry!” Up close, he looked even younger than Greg had expected, and his accent was surprisingly rough, even more so than Greg’s. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking-“

“It’s alright,” Greg said. He glanced around, stepping away from the glass and the slowly moving puddle of wine. Already, as if summoned by the sound, a handful of people that Greg assumed to be from the household staff were converging on the spill with mops and dustpans. “I’m Greg.”

“Eggsy.”

Ignoring the fact that apparently everyone Harry Hart knew had a strange sounding name, Greg shook the young man’s hand. “Why the rush, Eggsy?”

“’S lookin’ for Harry. Heard some guy badmouthing Merlin, thought he’d want to know.”

“Next time, maybe look where you’re going,” Greg suggested mildly. He headed back in the direction of the bar, and Eggsy followed at his heels.

“Sorry again,” he said. “You ‘aven’t seen Harry, have you?”

“Sorry,” Greg told him. “I haven’t seen him since I got here.” He ordered again, ignoring the bartender’s raised eyebrows, and was about to say something else to Eggsy when they were interrupted by the very man he’d been looking for.

“I was beginning to think you’d left,” Harry joined them at the bar. “Roxy’s been trying to find you.”

“What happened to the girl she was chattin’ up?”

“I wouldn’t know, I only just saw her,” Harry said. He nodded at Greg, “Hello again.”

“Hi.” Greg took the drinks the bartender slid his way. “Great to meet you, Eggsy. Try not to run anyone else over tonight, okay?” He walked away as Harry questioned Eggsy as to what that meant.

Mycroft was exactly where Greg had left him, right down to the slumped posture, and he received the glass gratefully. “Sorry that took so long,” Greg said, sitting down beside his boyfriend.

“Did you get lost?”

“No. Nearly got run over.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrow, “What happened?”

Greg shrugged, “Some kid crashed into me. The one in yellow, remember?” He had no doubt Mycroft had noticed him; his boyfriend had incredible powers of observation, after all, and Eggsy was hardly subtle.

“Are you alright?” Mycroft looked more concerned than was probably necessary.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Fully healed, remember? Can’t say the same for the wine glasses. Hope the Harts weren’t especially fond of them.”

Mycroft examined the one in his hand briefly, and then said, “They wouldn’t put out their best for guests. I don’t think they’ll notice.”

Across the room, slightly raised voices drew Greg and Mycroft’s attention. Harry had entered at some point, his arms crossed and his expression livid. He was flanked by Merlin on one side and Eggsy on the other. The former had a chillingly calm look on his face, the latter nerves masked by a thin veil of bravado. Greg had to admit he was pleased that the man on the other end of Harry’s ire was the same one who had upset Mycroft with his comment about Greg being for hire. They were too far away to hear the words being said, only the raised voices. Merlin settled one hand on Harry’s shoulder when the man rocked forward, looking like he might punch his opponent, and the shouting stopped. More calmly, Harry pointed towards the door and said something, too quietly for Greg to hear. The other man looked scandalized, but a glower from Merlin made him shrink back and slink out the door, his wife following after with an expression caught somewhere between subtly pleased and dejected.

Harry, his companions in tow, crossed the room and sank into the seat across from Mycroft. Merlin and Eggsy settled next to him. “Remind me not to invite him next year, darling,” Harry said to Merlin, who nodded agreeably.

“I hate these bloody things,” Harry confided to Mycroft, looking across the table at him. “I don’t think my parents are so much inviting me back into the family as condemning me to hell.”

“It’s where they think you’re going anyway,” Merlin said, remarkably casually.

Eggsy snorted, “Harry, your parents sound like pricks.”

“Oh, you’ve met them?” Harry laughed bitterly. “Always was jealous of you, Mycroft. Your parents were sensible.”

“Sensible is not the word I would use,” Mycroft said, “but they were certainly more tolerant than yours.”

“I imagine raising that troublesome brother of yours took a great deal of tolerance,” Harry agreed. “How is Sherlock these days?”

“Brilliant, but as much a pain as ever,” Mycroft responded. He gestured to Greg, “Gregory’s had his hands full dealing with him.”

Harry’s attention shifted to Greg, “You work with Sherlock?”

“Work is a loose term,” Greg said. “Sherlock tends to come into my work and do his own thing. I’m a detective at Scotland Yard,” he tacked on.

Eggsy stiffened a bit, and Greg looked at him curiously. “Had a couple run-ins with the feds before,” the kid admitted. “Wasn’t always on the right side of the law.”

“Eggsy’s something of my apprentice,” Harry said. “He’s cleaned up his act considerably since I took him under my wing.”

“You say that like you were the one who trained him,” Merlin muttered, but his voice was affectionate. Greg got the impression that, legally or not, the couple considered Eggsy akin to their adopted child.

Harry nudged Merlin affectionately, and then stood up, “Can’t spend too long with any one guest, you know. Bad for appearances. Do say goodbye before you leave, will you? You’re much more pleasant company than most here.”

“We certainly shall,” Mycroft said. He smiled politely, one of the more real smiles Greg had seen all night, and Harry took off with his entourage.

Mycroft sighed and stood as well, “I might as well go take a look at the auction. Do you think you’ll stay here, or…?”

Greg understood Mycroft’s concern about Greg’s reaction to the probably ridiculous amounts of money people would be throwing around for objects probably not worth half as much, so he didn’t push to come with Mycroft. “I might wander around a bit,” he said. “See if there’s anyone else worth talking to, maybe explore a couple of the open rooms. Houses like this always have a good bit of artwork that’s worth taking a look at.”

“Then I’ll find you when I’m done,” Mycroft said. He planted a brief kiss on Greg’s cheek and strode away, downing the remains of his wine as he did so.

Greg finished off his glass as well, resolving that he’d wait at least a little while before he had another. Two glasses put him in a slightly bubbly mood, any more and he ran the risk of getting properly drunk, and while Greg trusted his control when sober, Mycroft was still skittish enough when it came to sex that he wasn’t willing to test his control when drunk.

He left the glass on the table and wandered away. He’d seen people go upstairs earlier, and while he wasn’t sure if they’d been sneaking away or if the second floor was open to guests, he figured it couldn’t hurt to take a look. He could do with a little time spent away from the crowd of people.

The second floor was pleasantly quiet, and like Greg suspected it was decorated with a wealth of old, expensive looking paintings.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Greg turned away from his examination of what looked like a common portrait, had it not been for the angelic imagery hovering over the figure, to see one of the trophy wives he’d seen earlier standing behind him. At least, he was pretty sure he’d seen her. He couldn’t remember her name, and anyway they all looked more or less the same to him: bleached blonde, wearing dresses that were probably far too expensive for how little fabric they seemed to contain, attached to the arms of men who looked close to twice their age, and nearly all with identical bored expressions. This woman’s expression, however, was anything but bored.

“It’s nice enough,” Greg said carefully. “I haven’t got a clue about art, though, so I couldn’t tell you anything about it that you can’t see for yourself.”

“Gregory, was it?”

“Greg. Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Cecily.” She extended her hand, and Greg shook it awkwardly. She looked amused, and he wondered if he was supposed to kiss it. “Where has your...date run off to?”

“Mycroft? He’s downstairs.”

“How fortunate,” Cecil purred. “I seem to have misplaced my husband as well. You’re a detective, aren’t you? Good at...finding things?” She licked her lips, glancing coyly up at him from under her eyelashes.

Greg blinked. “Um...I...I’m sure your husband hasn’t gone far. He’ll probably be looking for you.”

“Oh, I think I have a little time.” She advanced a step closer. “Don’t be shy, Greg, I don’t bite. Well, not unless you ask me nicely.”

Greg took several steps back, “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m already in a relationship. With Mycroft. My date. Who you met.” Shit, Mycroft had warned him about this, hadn’t he? Still, Greg found it hard to do anything beyond stutter out his rejection. He really hadn’t expected anyone to be so forward with him, and he definitely didn’t want to offend her. Under other circumstances, he wouldn’t bother sparing her feelings, but Greg didn’t want to risk anything that might reflect badly on Mycroft. Like, say, loudly telling off the wife of some powerful businessman in the middle of a black tie event.

Cecily grinned and backed him towards the wall, her fingers reached out and skating down his chest, “He doesn’t need to know.”

“Okay, nope. I’m going to leave now. Have...fun, I guess.” He fled downstairs, forgoing dignity for the sake of getting as far away from Cecily as possible. At the base of the stairs he tripped, and would have toppled into an embarrassing heap had a pair of arms not caught him and steadied him.

“Falling for me all over again, my darling?”

Greg grinned in relief, “Every day, love.”

“Where were you going in such a hurry? Not taking a page out of young Eggsy’s book, are you?”

“I was coming to find you, actually. Just got accosted by one of the wives upstairs. Thought she was going to take a bite out of me.”

“Well, you do look delicious.” Mycroft could barely contain his smirk. “I take it you thoroughly rebuked her advances?”

“I’d call running away pretty thoroughly rebuked, yeah.”

When Mycroft’s smirk grew more pronounced, Greg rolled his eyes. “What?”

“Nothing, darling. Do you want to dance?”

“I’m going to ignore the fact that you’re deflecting because I actually do.” Greg adjusted his grip so that Mycroft wasn’t actively supporting his weight anymore and allowed his boyfriend to lead him out onto the dance floor, where a handful of other couples were drifting about in a casual waltz. Greg let Mycroft position him, only faintly remembering how he was supposed to move. “Sorry if I’m terrible.”

“Just follow my lead,” Mycroft murmured. He guided Greg through the steps, until Greg got it enough that he could move without Mycroft’s prompting.

“Having fun?” he asked after a while.

“More than expected, although I still find it rather tedious.”

“The event or the dancing?”

Mycroft pulled him a little closer, and Greg’s heart sped up. “The event,” Mycroft murmured. “I find I’m rather enjoying the dancing.”

Greg made it about two songs before the proximity and the bubbly feeling from the wine got to him. “How much longer do we have to be here?” he asked quietly, wondering if the tension in his voice was as obvious to Mycroft as it was to Greg.

“We’ve been here an acceptable length of time. Why?”

Greg couldn’t help sliding his hand down Mycroft’s back to just above his arse, although for the sake of public decency he didn’t go any lower. “Because,” he whispered into Mycroft’s ear, “you’re fucking gorgeous, and if we spend much longer here I might have to rethink my stance on making use of strangers’ bedrooms.”

Mycroft shuddered, pressing into Greg’s touch before he pulled away, dragging Greg off the dance floor. Greg followed him, grinning. Mycroft only paused to wave goodnight to their hosts, not even bothering to stop for a proper farewell, and shoved Greg out the door. Behind them, Greg thought Harry’s expression was rather amused.

***

Mycroft kept control of himself just long enough for the car to pull around and Gregory to climb into it before he lunged in after his boyfriend and, ignoring seat belts altogether, settled himself in Gregory’s lap. Gregory didn’t seem to mind in the slightest: one of his hands settled on Mycroft’s hip while the other wrapped around Mycroft’s back to support him as the car lurched forward. Mycroft, for his part, buried his fingers in Gregory’s hair and attacked his boyfriend’s lips, kissing Gregory like his life depended on it.

Gregory frowned, pulling away a bit when the car made an unfamiliar turn. “Isn’t this...the wrong way...back to the house?” he panted slightly.

“We’re not going back to the house,” Mycroft leaned in to nip at Gregory’s earlobe, drawing a groan from his boyfriend. “My flat is much closer. And we’re not having sex in the back of my car.”

“Aw,” Gregory’s playful tone was broken by a sharp hiss as Mycroft dug his fingers more sharply into Gregory’s hair to tilt his boyfriend’s head back, giving Mycroft full access to Gregory’s neck. “There goes that fantasy.” His hand tightened on Mycroft’s hips, flexing with the effort to keep from pulling Mycroft to him. Mycroft was tempted to reach between them to put some pressure on Gregory’s rapidly growing erection, but given his previous statement he thought it have might have been too much of a tease for his boyfriend.

He settled for saying, “You’ll thank me when your back doesn’t ache in the morning.”

“You calling me old?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mycroft teased, freeing one hand so he could loosen Gregory's bowtie and flick open the top button on his shirt. He pressed a soft kiss against Gregory’s pulse point before biting down gently. “We're almost there.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because I'm a genius,” Mycroft was not giggling. Must have been the wine. He retaliated by sucking hard on Gregory's neck, practically purring as the skin turned dark under his attentions.

“Christ, yeah you are,” Gregory groaned. “ _Please_ keep doing that.”

It would have been rude to deny such a polite request, so Mycroft didn't. The hand not busy with Gregory’s hair stroked down his chest, relishing the soft fabric under his fingers. He was torn between unbuttoning more to get to his boyfriend's skin and making Gregory leave the suit on for the rest of the evening. Both options had their merit.

The miniscule part of his mind not entirely focused on cataloguing Gregory’s reactions kept a watchful eye on where the car was, so the moment it stopped he was aware enough to drag himself away from Gregory, who made a noise of protest before he understood and then became very interested in chasing Mycroft out of the car and up the stairs to the door of his flat. Mycroft laughed and raced him, Gregory hot on his heels, until his boyfriend caught him at the top of the stairs, spun him around, and pinned him to the door by his hips. There was the briefest of pauses, like Gregory was regretting or reconsidering that action, but Mycroft felt remarkably light and fluttery, and so drew Gregory closer with an arm clawing at his back, crushing them together and licking into his mouth. Like always, his boyfriend’s body was a brand of fire burning along the length of Mycroft’s body where they were pressed together, and Mycroft was not oblivious to his boyfriend’s cock pressing into his hip, although he left it be for the moment.

Against his lips, Gregory huffed out a laugh, “The neighbours are going to talk.”

“People do little else,” Mycroft quipped, but he understood the subtle urgency running under Gregory’s tone, and fumbled in his pocket for the key, reaching behind himself for the doorknob and unlocking the door blindly. They stumbled back as the door swung open, and the momentum allowed Mycroft to extricate himself just enough to punch in the code that unlocked the second door before he shepherded Gregory into the flat.

His boyfriend looked around, interested, “I don’t think I’ve ever been in your flat.”

“Our flat, really,” Mycroft said absently. “I will give you the full tour later, but right now there’s only one room I’m especially interested in you becoming acquainted with.”

Gregory grinned at him, “Then lead the way, Mr. Holmes.”

“With pleasure, Detective Inspector.”

With only a minimal amount of incredibly distracting groping from Gregory’s wandering hands, Mycroft managed to guide them into the bedroom, flicking on the light switch as he went. The bedroom was slightly smaller than the one they enjoyed at home, the bedspread deep red and the sheets pitch black. Most of the room worked off that theme, giving it a rather sultry and romantic effect now that Mycroft actually had someone to share it with. He turned sharply on his heel, his boyfriend following closely enough behind that he nearly ran into him, and spun them around so he could push Gregory neatly into the center of the bed, the blue of his suit contrasting beautifully with the colour scheme, a neon sign screaming for Mycroft’s attention. He stood over his boyfriend, admiring the view and considering, and Gregory propped himself up on his forearms, that roguish smirk and his mussed hair making quite the enticing picture. He spread his legs a little, clearly inviting Mycroft to crawl between them, and what little blood was left in Mycroft’s brain made a desperate rush south.

He shook his head to clear it, and Gregory seemed to take that as some sort of cue, because he sat up and beckoned Mycroft to join him on the bed. Mycroft slid down to sit next to him, the wine not nearly enough to dull his mind more than a little, if enough to make him a bit bolder than usual. Gregory’s bowtie was a lost cause, the knot mangled and the ends dangling from Mycroft’s rough treatment of it in the car, so Mycroft tugged it free and deposited it over the side of the bed.

“Whatever you want,” Gregory murmured, breaking the silence between them. His voice was rough, and his need to touch Mycroft became plain as his hands smoothed up Mycroft’s thighs. “Whatever you want, baby, I’ll give it to you.”

Mycroft’s nose wrinkled up at the phantom echo his memory conjured behind Gregory's voice, and he swallowed hard. “Please don’t call me that,” he said softly.

Gregory’s expression turned apologetic as he understood, “Sorry.”

Mycroft kissed him. “It’s fine. Just. Don’t.”

Gregory went to remove his hands, but Mycroft didn’t want to be pitied and he really didn’t want to lose the light, bubbly mood the wine had put them both in, so he grabbed them and moved them higher, then curled his fingers around the back of Gregory’s neck to pull him into a deep kiss. Gregory stroked over the tops of Mycroft’s thighs, his hands tantalizingly close to where Mycroft was fighting to ignore his own throbbing erection.

“Talk to me, love,” Gregory said when they broke for air. “I can’t read your mind.”

“I want you,” Mycroft whispered.

Gregory laughed, “I should hope so.” He moved his hand to stroke a lock of Mycroft’s hair back out of his face. “Think you can be a bit more specific than that? Because there are a lot of things that I want to do to you right now, love, and unless I get some directions I’m going to be very tempted to give in to them.” It was playful, but also a warning. The way it was phrased stirred something uncomfortable in Mycroft’s chest, but he pushed it aside.

Directions. “I...I don’t…” Mycroft stammered. Why was it so hard to think all of a sudden?

“Can I touch you?”

The question didn’t make sense at first; they were thoroughly entwined, and therefore touching a great deal. But then the hand Gregory still had on Mycroft’s thigh squeezed gently, and Mycroft startled. Right. He nodded shakily.

Gregory slid closer and moved his hand. His skin was blazing hot, even through two layers of fabric, and Mycroft shuddered when Gregory cupped him gently through his trousers. Gregory gave him a light squeeze, and Mycroft hid his face in Gregory’s shoulder as the sensation crashed over him. “Christ, you’re gorgeous,” Gregory whispered. “Don’t hide, love, come on. Look at me.” He applied a bit more pressure, and Mycroft gasped, burrowing deeper into Gregory’s warmth. He felt tears prick at his eyes, but he wasn’t sure why he was crying.

The pressure disappeared, and there were hands on his shoulders, and then Gregory’s frown came into view. Mycroft bit his lip, wiping away the tears quickly, but the damage had been done. “Mycroft?” Gregory asked cautiously. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Love, you’re crying.”

“I know.”

Gregory paused, “Good tears or bad tears, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said helplessly.

Gregory scooped him up, pulling Mycroft carefully to straddle his lap and stroking his back soothingly. “Overwhelmed?” he guessed.

Mycroft nodded. He tasted blood and realized he was still biting his lip. He released it. “I’m alright,” he said quietly. “It’s just...it’s a lot.” He fought off another wave of tears.

“What do you want, love?” Gregory asked. “We don’t have to do this-”

“No!” Mycroft flushed. “No, I want this. I just…” How was he supposed to work around this? He was supposed to be a genius, surely there was a solution. After a moment, it came to him. Shyly, he asked, “Can I watch you?”

“Watch me?” Confusion flashed across Gregory’s face, chased away by understanding. He clarified, “You want to watch me get off?”

“Yes. And, if I’m feeling up for it, I might…” Mycroft made a vague but universal hand gesture, sure he was turning redder than the bedspread.

It didn’t matter, because he recognized the low sound in Gregory’s throat as him swallowing back a moan. “Fuck,” he whispered.

“I take it you approve.”

“Tell me how you want me, and I’ll show you how much I approve.”

Mycroft shooed his boyfriend up the bed, until Gregory was leaning back against the headboard, his legs spread in a v. Mycroft knelt between them, back by Gregory’s ankles. Gregory really was a sight to behold: his hair thoroughly spiked from Mycroft’s eager hands, his bowtie gone and the top button of his dress shirt undone but otherwise still in his (albeit now rather wrinkled) tuxedo, his erection making a rather insistent bulge in his well-tailored trousers. Mycroft fought the urge to drool and thanked a deity he really didn’t believe in for his incredible memory skills, because that image would stay with him a very long time.

“Now what?” Gregory asked him, settling in comfortably.

“Touch yourself,” Mycroft said. His voice was shakier than he would have liked it, but he cleared his throat and his voice was steadier when he said, “Just with your fingertips.”

“Tease,” Gregory grinned at him and obeyed, his fingers skating lightly over the tent in his trousers. Mycroft’s cock gave a throb of sympathy at the ghost of sensation, but he didn’t risk touching himself, although he did spread his knees a little wider to accommodate, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Gregory, whose eyes darkened.

“Unbutton your shirt,” Mycroft didn’t quite blurt it out, but it was a near thing. “Don’t stop touching yourself.”

He fumbled a bit with the buttons, but Gregory was very determined, and managed to undo them, one by one, with only the one hand. He paused when he reached the waistcoat, looking to Mycroft for further direction. “Leave the rest,” Mycroft murmured. Gregory didn’t wait for Mycroft to tell him to do so; he nudged the halves of his shirt apart, putting more of his chest on display. Mycroft swallowed hard and resisted the urge to reach out and run his fingers through Gregory’s chest hair. He’d asked to watch, so watch was all he would do.

“I know your nipples are a bit sensitive,” he said instead. “Play with them, would you darling?”

Gregory reached up and pinched one nipple, slamming his eyes shut, his head falling back against the headboard as he rolled the hardened bud between his fingers. His breath came in sharper pants, and the hand that had been caressing himself through his trousers stopped, instead gripping his thigh hard enough to cut off circulation.

“Magnificent,” Mycroft breathed. “Absolutely stunning.” He squirmed, then bit his lip and gave in, pressing a careful hand lightly against the front of his trousers to provide just a hint of friction. It wasn’t nearly as overwhelming as Gregory’s touch had been, so Mycroft allowed himself to press a little harder before he regained control of himself and moved his hand to rest on his knee.

“Eyes open, darling,” Mycroft requested, and Gregory slowly blinked them back open. “Those trousers look a bit tight. Why don’t you unzip them, give yourself a bit more room?”

Gregory obeyed, using both hands to free the button and then pull down the zipper, his length pressing up insistently as it was given more space. Gregory reached for himself, and then paused, his hand trembling with the effort, as he waited for Mycroft’s instruction.

And wasn’t that a heady thought? Mycroft licked his lips and encouraged, “Go ahead and touch yourself. Not too tightly, though.”

A short whine left Gregory’s throat before his boyfriend could stop it, but he did as requested, keeping his hand loose as he circled it around his fabric-covered cock. Gregory’s jaw was clenched, possibly from the effort of keeping quiet, a fact which Mycroft thought needed to be rectified.

“Don’t feel you have to be quiet on my account, Gregory. You know how much I love to hear you.”

The little, slightly self-conscious laugh that earned him was music to Mycroft’s ears. “You’re driving me crazy, love.”

“That was rather the idea.” There was a bit of a wet spot forming on Gregory’s pants, presumably where the tip of his cock was leaking precum, so Mycroft suggested, “Why don’t you run your thumb over the head, darling?” Gregory gasped and his hips jerked into his hand when he did so, so Mycroft murmured, “Again.” When the reaction was the same, he grinned, “You make such lovely noises, Gregory.” He flicked open the button on his own trousers and slid his hand inside, more a tease for Gregory, who shuddered and stared hungrily at him, than for the sake of his own pleasure.

“Mycroft,” Gregory whined softly. “Love, please.” Mycroft dropped his gaze to Gregory’s hand, which had slid to the base of his erection and squeezed hard.

Mycroft took pity on his boyfriend and murmured, “Well, you have been very good for me tonight. You can take it out, darling, and let’s take care of it, shall we?”

Gregory pushed his trousers and pants down just enough to free his cock, sighing in relief. Mycroft’s, still trapped in his trousers, gave a throb at the image Gregory presented; head tipped back so the love bite Mycroft had given him was on full display, dressed but utterly dishevelled, his erection fully hard and pulsing. “That looks painful,” Mycroft said. “Shall we do something about it?”

“Mycroft,” Gregory’s voice broke. Mycroft leaned forward, and his boyfriend tensed, but Mycroft merely pulled open the top drawer of the nightstand and retrieved the bottle of lube he had stored there. Dropping a quick kiss on Gregory’s cheek, Mycroft pressed the bottle into his boyfriend’s hand. Gregory squeezed a dollop out and wrapped his fingers around his cock again, but he didn’t move his hand. Still waiting for Mycroft’s okay.

“No more teasing, my darling,” Mycroft said. “Show me what you like. Show me how you make yourself feel good.”

“Christ, love,” Gregory huffed a laugh, tightening his grip and giving himself a long, slow stroke. “You’re going to be the death of me.” His strokes picked up in pace, and his twisted his wrist a bit of the end. Mycroft swallowed hard and took the lube from Gregory, applying it and carefully pulling himself out, his hand moving in time with Gregory’s.

Gregory groaned, “Fuck, you’re gorgeous like that.”

“Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

“You.”

“What about me?” Mycroft pressed, hissing between his teeth when Gregory slowed his strokes to tease at the head and the underside of his cock, matching the movements. “If there were no boundaries tonight, nothing off limits, what would you do to me?”

“You really want to know?” There was a hint of doubt in Gregory’s voice, like he was worried about scaring Mycroft off.

“Yes.” There is no such doubt in Mycroft’s voice. He liked to hear Gregory talking, and a fantasy was only that: a fantasy.

“You’re fucking gorgeous, all dressed up like that,” Gregory said. “I mean, your arse...Christ, if we hadn’t been in public, I would have been all over you on the dancefloor. Wanted to grab it, squeeze it. Maybe wrap one of your gorgeous legs around my waist. Probably wouldn’t have taken much to get off right there, pressed up against you like a horny teenager at a high school dance.”

Mycroft shuddered, and not just because his strokes, still in time with Gregory’s, were increasing in pace again.

“And in the backseat of your car...fuck, I really hope you rethink the no sex in the car rule, because I just want to stretch you out, see if those bloody long legs even fit lying down. I’d love to get between them, drive you wild with my hands and my mouth until you were begging me for more. And I’d give it to you, give you anything you wanted.”

Mycroft Holmes was not known for having an especially active imagination, but _oh_. He could very clearly envision what Gregory was describing, and he promised himself to at least consider rethinking his stance on sex in the car.

“Oh, you’re fucking hot when you blush,” Gregory groaned. “Would have taken you up against the door of the flat if you’d have let me. I’m not as strong as I used to be, but I bet I could still fuck you up against the wall if I tried. Your legs around my waist, your hands in my hair. Fucking love it when you play with my hair. Never found that hot before, but Christ, thought I was going to end things way too early when you started pulling on it in the car. And your mouth, fucking hell. Gotten off in the shower so many times thinking about your lips wrapped around me, wondering if you’ve got a gag reflex or if I could just push myself down your throat, wondering if you’d let me choke you with my cock if I was careful about it.”

That should have scared Mycroft, that definitely should have been enough to frighten him, to make him want to stop, but Gregory’s voice was rough and his strokes were faster and faster and he wasn’t even touching Mycroft so it was safe, it was fine, and Mycroft was so, so close and hanging onto every word.

“I fucking love you so much, you know that? All those fantasies are incredible, but right now? Right now, if I could do whatever I wanted to you, I’d spread you out on the bed and pin you down and kiss every fucking freckle on your body. I’d lick you all over, just to watch you fall apart so I could put you back together again, make you feel so good, sweetheart. Open you up and make love to you, kiss you while I did, tell you how much I loved you. Fuck, I want to make you scream my name, love, make you beg me, make you forget your own name because nothing else matters but how amazing it feels. I want to make you see stars, constellations, whole galaxies when you finally fall over the edge, want to know that no one else is _ever_ going to make you feel as good as I make you feel.”

Mycroft gasped and shuddered, and that was it. He spilled over his hand, squeezing his eyes tightly against the flood of warmth rushing over him. He was vaguely aware of Gregory following suit, the soft swearing that always seemed to accompany his lover’s orgasm cueing him in even if he couldn’t see it. It was a long time, or perhaps no time at all, before he was aware of Gregory’s gentle hands on him, a soft weight cupping his chin and turning his face up. Mycroft blinked open his eyes and Gregory smiled.

“There you are, love. You okay?”

Mycroft nodded, although his whole body still felt like it was shaking apart. The bedroom lights suddenly felt a bit too bright, and he squinted, casting his eyes towards the mattress.

“We’re a bit of a mess, aren’t we? Do you have anything-”

“Flannels are in the bathroom,” Mycroft managed. He stood up, “I’ll be right back.”

He made it as far as the en-suite bathroom, but the moment he flicked on the lights the overwhelming whiteness of the room made his head spin, and his still-trembling legs gave out. Between one blink and the next, he found himself kneeling on the bathroom floor, staring at the tiles as he shook.

“Mycroft?” The voice was soft at first, hazy and distant, but when it repeated it was louder. Gregory had followed him, some faraway portion of Mycroft’s brain told him, but turning his head to look was too hard. “Shit, Mycroft!”

He flinched at the first touch, and Gregory’s questioning hands withdrew sharply. “Love?” he asked, very quietly. “Mycroft? Can you say something please? Anything?”

“Turn off the light.” It took a herculean effort to get the words out, but it was worth it when the bathroom plunged back into darkness and Mycroft’s head stopped spinning so badly. Gregory crouched on the floor next to him, not touching, just hovering at the periphery of Mycroft’s vision.

“Are you…” Gregory paused. “Did I do something wrong?”

Always the first conclusion. “No,” Mycroft said softly.

“Then why…?”

Mycroft took a deep breath, stuttering it out on the exhale. Instead of answering, he said, “Flannels are under the sink. Do you think you could…?”

“Of course, love.” Gregory stood up. Mycroft vaguely heard the sound of the cabinet opening and closing, then the sound of the tap, and then Gregory was back on the floor next to him. Mycroft took the proffered flannel with shaking fingers and carefully wiped himself off as best he could before passing the cloth back to Gregory, who he presumed did the same.

“Mycroft?” Gregory asked after several long moments. “Are you alright? Is there anything I can do?”

Gregory was truly an angel in disguise. Or perhaps Mycroft’s low standards were confusing kindness with saintliness again. “I...will be fine,” he said after a while. “I just need a minute.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

“Okay.” They lapsed back into silence. Gregory didn’t attempt to touch Mycroft again, but when Mycroft carefully stretched his hand across the floor between them and found Gregory’s, his boyfriend allowed Mycroft to lace their fingers together.

Finally, Mycroft thought he was steady enough to move again. He rose to his feet, Gregory jumping up with him, hovering at his elbow. Mycroft let go of Gregory’s hand in favour of clutching onto his arm, and without needed further instructions, Gregory guided him back to bed.

Mycroft sat down on the mattress, but Gregory did not. The bedroom was brighter than the bathroom had been with the lights off, and when Mycroft shut his eyes Gregory moved to the light switch and plunged the room into darkness. Mycroft heard the sound of drawers being opened and, assuming Gregory was looking for sleepwear, said, “Top drawer on the right.”

A moment later, Gregory was back by his side, pressing a bundle of fabric into his hands. There was the sound of his boyfriend undressing and then redressing, and then Gregory was kneeling in front of Mycroft without him being quite sure when his boyfriend had gotten there.

“Mycroft?”

Gregory’s eyes glinted in the low light, worry reflected back at Mycroft when he managed to meet them. “I think I may need assistance,” Mycroft said. “I’m not sure...buttons.” It was difficult to order his thoughts. They were simultaneously chaotic and completely absent.

“Alright.” Gregory helped him disrobe, sliding off his tuxedo piece by piece, undoing the buttons where Mycroft found his hands too unwieldy to do so and pointedly not looking when Mycroft shrugged off his dress shirt to pull on his pajamas. When they were done, Mycroft fumbled with the bedspread, pulling it back and shuffling until he was under it. He patted the other side, letting Gregory know that he was still allowed, and welcomed, to share the bed.

When Gregory climbed in next to Mycroft, he asked, “Are you going to tell me what that was about?”

“I will. I just...I need a few moments. Please.”

“Are you okay if I touch you?”

“Yes.”

Gregory’s arms wrapped around Mycroft’s waist, and his boyfriend pressed a kiss to the base of Mycroft’s neck. He remained quiet, waiting for Mycroft to speak.

Finally, Mycroft’s thoughts calmed enough for him to say, “I apologize if I frightened you. I was feeling a bit overwhelmed, is all.”

“Overwhelmed? Love, you said-”

“I did not lie to you, Gregory. I very much wanted to do what we just did, and I have no regrets about it. I don’t know if something about this evening, perhaps the party or the fact that we were drinking or something else, made me a bit more sensitive than usual, but I am fine. I merely should have waited a bit longer to try and do anything afterwards.”

“But what happened?”

“I told you, I got overwhelmed. I’m still not used to...well, sexual gratification, and we know that too much stimulus can be a bit challenging for me to handle. I was alright, I just moved too quickly and when I turned on the bathroom light it was a bit of an assault on my already overloaded senses.”

“So you’re really okay?”

“Very much so, Gregory. Although I find myself very tired. If you’ve been properly reassured, perhaps we could sleep now?”

“Do you want me to do something about the tuxes before we go to sleep?”

Mycroft waved a lazy hand, “They will have to be dry-cleaned anyway. It’s a good thing my dry-cleaner is very discreet.”

Gregory chuckled, “My sexy secret agent.” He kissed Mycroft’s cheek, “Sleep well, love.”

“Goodnight, Gregory.”


	2. Somebody I Can Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft manage that double date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh...oops? Hiatus turned out a lot longer than I expected (but, if you like Kingsman, go check out my work in that fandom, because there's a solid chunk of it now), but at least it wasn't quite a year? Sorry, guys. 
> 
> This update isn't especially long (or, in my opinion, especially good), but have it anyway. The next chapter is already in the works, but I'm not going to be making any promises about when updates will happen. We all know how that turns out. Sorry again, and I hope you like it.

Greg blinked, shifting to prop himself up and squinting against the red-tinged light. Thin, gauzy curtains were the source of the colour, letting in the morning sun. It took him a moment to recognize the room, but when he did the night before came crashing back down on him. He flipped onto his back, noting that Mycroft’s side of the bed was vacant, and slowly got to his feet.

The bedroom door was open, and when Greg wandered back down the hall he heard movement in one of the other rooms. Poking his head in, he saw it was the kitchen, sleek and chrome and a little too dark for Greg’s taste, and discovered the source of the noise was Mycroft.

Greg leaned against the doorframe. “Good morning.”

Mycroft turned towards him, a smile spreading slowly across his face. “Good morning, Gregory.” He made a brief gesture towards the bowl on the counter. “You just missed Anthea.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I’ve been rather neglectful of this place since we started playing house, and the kitchen was...well, you recall the state of my kitchen when we first started dating?”

“I assume you mean that you never kept any food in the house?”

Mycroft shifted slightly and nodded. “Precisely. It was worse here.”

Greg glanced around. The kitchen was a great deal smaller than the one they enjoyed at their house. It was fully furnished, but all the appliances still looked new, like they hadn’t seen any use at all. “So why have a flat and a house?” Greg asked. “We’ve been together, what, almost five months? And I don’t think I’ve heard you so much as talk about this place.”

“I used it a great deal more before we became a couple. It’s closer to my work, so when I didn’t feel like sleeping in my office it was more convenient to come here for a few hours. However, it is a bit small for two people.”

“It’s not that small,” Greg said. He hadn’t had a tour, but given the number of doors off the main hallway, he was pretty sure it was at least twice the size of his old flat.

Mycroft shrugged. “Either way, I like the family home much better. I often feel like I’m suffocating this close to so many people. The neighbors are discreet-”

“Meaning, you’ve done background checks on the lot of them and drove off any that you didn’t like?” Greg couldn’t help but tease.

Mycroft neither confirmed nor denied it. “-but I still dislike being so close to central London. It does get a bit noisy.”

Greg hadn’t noticed the noise until Mycroft pointed it out, but even then it was fairly muffled. He supposed that’s what he got for working and living in the city; he was used to the bustle of everyday life in London.

“So,” he said. “Are we gonna talk about last night?”

Mycroft frowned. “What about it?”

“Well...with what happened…”

“I wasn’t aware there was anything we had to discuss.” Mycroft emptied a scoop of whatever was in the mixing bowl into the pan on the stove, and a soft hissing noise rose up around them.

“I know you said you were okay…” Christ, Greg felt like an idiot.

“But you’re still worried,” Mycroft finished for him. He offered Greg a smile. “While I admire your concern, Gregory, you really needn't worry. As I said, I’m fine. I was a bit overwhelmed, we dealt with it accordingly, and we moved on.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’ve very sure,” Mycroft said firmly. He momentarily abandoned the pan in favour of moving over to Greg and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Please trust me on this, my darling.” He returned to the task of making breakfast.

“I do trust you,” Greg said. And he did. “But things are a little different when alcohol is involved, and the morning after-”

“You think I’m regretting that we had sex because we had a bit of wine beforehand? Neither of us were drunk, Gregory. I knew exactly what was happening, and I have no regrets about it whatsoever.”

Greg winced. When Mycroft put it so bluntly, it felt like he was overreacting, but he couldn’t help it. Something about the previous night wasn’t sitting well with him.

Mycroft, perceptive as always even when he back was turned, picked up on it. “You’re worried about something else.”

Greg sighed. “Maybe?”

“I’m not made of glass. You can tell me what you’re thinking about.”

“The stuff I said last night…”

Mycroft straightened up, turning and looking at Greg in surprise. “Is that really what this is about?”

“Um…yeah?”

“So you aren’t upset that we had sex, you’re upset that I asked you to talk to me during it?”

“When you put it that way it sounds stupid,” Greg grumbled. “That’s not it. We talked about boundaries, and some of the stuff I said kind of crossed those boundaries, and I’m just worried you’d think...I dunno, that I’ve forgotten or don’t care or something.” He studied the floor, toeing at the line between black tiles for something to do.

Mycroft took the pan off the burner and came over to stand in front of Greg. “Look at me, darling.” When Greg lifted his head, Mycroft said, “There is nothing wrong with sharing a fantasy. I very much enjoyed the things you were saying last night, and I know that just because those are things you would like to do doesn’t mean you will actually do them. You mentioned having sex in the car, but when I said no you didn’t even attempt to pursue the issue. You could very easily have taken the lead and done whatever you wanted, but instead you backed down and let me guide because that is what we agreed on. Some of those fantasies, someday, I would very much like to act on, but for now there is nothing wrong with fantasizing about something you want but cannot have. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“I think so.” Greg nodded. He blushed. “Sorry, I’m being a bit overbearing, aren’t I?”

“You’re very lucky it’s cute,” Mycroft said dryly, but there was a quirk of his lip that told Greg he wasn’t being serious. He returned his attention to the pan. “Now, I did make breakfast. I was hoping to surprise you with breakfast in bed, but I suppose that’s out?”

“We can go back to bed, if you want.”

Mycroft smiled at him. “Why don’t we do that, then?”

The fact that Mycroft finished his plate without prompting was enough of a sign for Greg that Mycroft probably wasn’t feeling any lingering anxiety from the night before, so he let go of his own worries. The bed was comfortable, and they didn’t have anywhere to be, and Greg was almost tempted to suggest spending the whole day there, curled up and cuddling. But curiosity got the better of him, and when they finished, he suggested, “Why don’t you give me the tour today? Since we were a little bit preoccupied last night.”

“Well, we certainly can, but there’s not the much to see.” Mycroft shifted, propping himself up more. “There’s a second bedroom, the kitchen, a dining area, the living room, and my office. And another bathroom, of course.”

“Love, I know that doesn’t qualify as much to you, but remember that my flat had literally half the number of rooms, if that many.” Still, he didn’t make a move to get up, and neither did Mycroft.

Eventually, they did migrate to the living room, because Mycroft didn’t have a television in the bedroom, but no further plan for the day developed. It was nice, Greg had to admit, just being able to relax for once without the spectre of a case or Mycroft’s work hanging over them. He might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

After a while, Mycroft commented, “Father’s Day is coming up, isn’t it?”

“Er, yeah. Why?”

“Are you going to see your daughters?”

“I dunno.” Greg considered. “We haven’t made any plans, and they are adults now. It’s not like when they were younger and we lived together, so they had to spend the day with me.”

“You’ve seen at least one of them for the holiday the past three years, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So presumably the pattern will continue.” Mycroft’s fingers stroked absently along Greg’s wrist. “Family is important to you. You should see your daughters.”

“I’ll text them to ask, but it’s not just up to me.” Greg shifted so he could be a little closer to Mycroft, angled more towards him than the television. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Father’s day. Any plans with your family?”

Mycroft chuckled and studied his lap. “I will most likely call my father, have a two minute conversation, and that will be the end of it. Minor holidays do not hold much stock in the Holmes household.”

“Oh.” Greg turned that over in his mind. “Would...I mean, if...Em and Lucy and I…”

“I would not presume to intrude on you with your children, darling, but I appreciate it.”

“Alright.”

There was a soft beep, and for a moment Greg thought it had come from the television before Mycroft heaved a sigh, fumbling for his phone on the end table.

“End of the world?”

Mycroft checked it and barely suppressed a role of his eyes. “Hardly. Anthea wants to know how the night went.”

Greg grinned. “Yeah? And what are you going to tell her?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Mycroft put the phone back. “I will respond later. I believe I have a two hour window before she becomes concerned enough to check the security cameras, and then another five before she gets irritated with me for not answering.”

“I still feel bad.”

“Why? I told her last night not to contact me, barring emergencies, and given that I don’t have to work today it does still apply to some extent.”

“Not about that.” Greg shook his head. “We never did manage that date with her and Stella. I was looking forward to meeting her.”

“Oh.” That drew Mycroft up short. “Well. That wasn’t your fault.”

“I know. Still wish we’d gotten to do it.”

“When I do respond to her, would you like me to propose another attempt at an outing?”

Greg nodded. “I mean, if you want.”

“I’ll have to check my calendar for when I’ll next be available, but sometime next week will probably be acceptable, assuming both our works remain crisis-free.”

“Here’s hoping.” Greg sighed.

Anthea, as it turned out, was very eager to reschedule the double date, as she’d apparently been very disappointed at not getting to introduce Greg to her fiance, and they penciled it in tentatively for the following Friday, barring catastrophe, at the same restaurant as last time. Mycroft’s jaw had tightened at Greg’s joke about second time being a charm, but he hadn’t commented.

Catastrophe had not happened. Greg was pretty sure Mycroft had toned down the security once the attack was over, but he suspected on that particular day that his boyfriend was keeping more of an eye on him than usual, and rather than use their plan from last time of meeting at the restaurant, Mycroft stopped by New Scotland Yard to pick him up so they could arrive together.

“I’m not sure I’m dressed for dinner,” Greg commented as he slid into the car. He smoothed at the wrinkles in his shirt. “Do you think we could stop by the house so I can-” He cut himself off as Mycroft passed him a bag of clothes without a word. It contained a replacement shirt, as well as a tie, and Greg kissed his cheek in thanks, unbuckling his seatbelt and stripping out of the old shirt without a thought.

He caught Mycroft’s appreciative eye halfway through buttoning the new one, and paused, grinning. “Rethinking your stance on car sex?”

“Hardly,” Mycroft scoffed, although Greg could hear the humour in his voice. “Just appreciating the view, that’s all.”

Greg finished buttoning the shirt and looped the tie around his neck. “It’s a pretty good view. But I’m pretty sure it’s not as good as mine.” Mycroft wasn’t dressed down in the slightest, but he was wearing Greg’s favourite suit, the one that made his legs look like they stretched on forever. Although, to be fair, that was most of Mycroft’s suits. His boyfriend had unfairly long legs. It was very distracting.

Mycroft rolled his eyes fondly, and instead of commenting, he reached for Greg’s tie, unknotting Greg’s admittedly somewhat sloppy work - a moving vehicle wasn’t the best for neat dressing - and retying it with perfect precision. “Thank you, love.”

“Don’t mention it. Are you ready?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Greg raised his eyebrows. “I like meeting new people. You hate going out to eat. I’m pretty sure I have less reason to be worried.”

“Nonsense. It’s been a good week for me. I should be fine.” There was the slightest hint of worry in his voice, but Greg was willing to overlook it. Mycroft sounded convinced.

“Alright then.” The car pulled to a stop at the kerb, and Greg gestured to the door. “After you.”

He followed Mycroft out onto the pavement, where Anthea was waiting, her arm wrapped around the waist of a woman Greg recognized from a photo Anthea had showed him. She was wearing a white dress with a floral print, and a clip with flowers attached to it was nestled in her tightly braided hair. She looked a bit like a walking advertisement for her profession.

“You must be Stella.” Greg offered his hand out. “I’m Greg. Anthea’s told me a lot about you.”

Stella gripped his hand and shook it, smiling warmly. “She’s told me a fair bit about you as well.”

“Good things, I hope.”

“Well, anyone who can wrangle Mycroft the way you can is pretty good in my book.”

“‘Wrangle?’” Mycroft looked appalled, and Greg nudged him.

Stella grinned. “Come on, Mycroft. You’re a handful and a half, and you know it. We all still love you anyway.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Yes, alright. Anthea, did you-”

“Table’s already reserved. We were just waiting on you.”

“Shall we go in, then?”

“You just want to get the conversation off of you,” Greg teased in a low voice, taking Mycroft’s hand as Anthea led them inside. “Stella seems nice.”

“She’s a perfectly amiable young woman.”

“You set them up, right?”

“I did recommend the match to Anthea, although I was unaware of quite how well suited they were for each other. But then, I’m not usually the best judge of compatibility.”

Greg grinned. “It’s cute. You playing matchmaker.”

“I was hardly-” Mycroft cut himself off and blushed as Greg raised his eyebrows. “Alright, perhaps there was...an element of matchmaking.”

“And you and Sherlock say you’re bad with people.”

“We are appalling with people, Gregory. A few lucky guesses with a few close friends do not a set of social skills make.”

“Sure,” Greg nodded, making it clear in his voice that he didn’t really believe that.

Their table was at the back of the restaurant, behind one of the privacy screens that dotted the corners of the room. It was nice, fancy enough that Greg was glad to be wearing a tie. It was the sort of posh place that, when Mycroft used to take him out when they were still casual acquaintances discussing Sherlock, Greg assumed were chosen to make him feel out of his element. It was better now; being with Mycroft had definitely helped to make Greg more comfortable in more formal environments, but there was still the niggling doubt at the back of his mind that he really didn’t belong here.

Anthea chose the wine, much to Greg’s relief, and he was thankful that, although the items themselves were listed in Italian on the menu, there was at least a description in English. He knew Mycroft was fluent, but he didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of Stella or Anthea by asking. The way the waiter eyed him when he took their orders was enough to tell Greg he probably butchered the pronunciation anyway. Mycroft found his hand under the table and gave it a squeeze of reassurance, and Greg shot him a grateful look.

“So,” Stella said, once the waiter left. “You work at Scotland Yard?”

“Uh, yeah. I do.”

“What’s that like?”

Greg glanced at Mycroft, who tilted his head curiously, like he too was wondering about the answer. Greg cleared his throat. “Well, uh...it’s not as exciting as people think. A lot of paperwork, mostly. Appearing in court sometimes.”

“But you deal with murder cases, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And the other day, the last time we tried this, I mean-”

Mycroft cut in, “That had nothing to do with Gregory’s work.”

Stella glanced back and forth between them, understood Mycroft’s tone, and backed down. Greg changed the subject. “What about you? You’re a florist, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“What’s that like?”

“Surprisingly busy,” Stella answered, and then launched into a story about a customer who had asked for a specific message in a set of flowers, and then complained that the colours of the bouquet were all wrong. Greg listened with interest, even though he didn’t understand much of it. Stella’s face lit up with passion when she spoke, and Anthea was clearly hanging onto her every word. It was sweet.

Conversation lulled around the time the meals came, and Mycroft changed the subject again to the upcoming wedding. “Have you set a date yet?”

Anthea nodded. “September sixteenth. I’ve already marked it off on your calendar, so I fully expect you to be there.”

“And barring a national emergency, I will be.”

“You’re bringing Greg as your plus one, I assume?” Stella added.

Mycroft hesitated, and Greg frowned. “Yes,” Mycroft finally said. He glanced at Greg. “Assuming, of course, you’re interested in attending?”

Greg nodded. “I’ll have to clear the time off, but this far in advance it should be fine. I look forward to it. I know wedding planning’s a hassle. How’s the going for you?”

“Well, the flowers are easy,” Stella laughed. “Everything else? Not so much. Anthea’s handling most of it. She likes to be organized.” The look she gave her fiance was so sappy, Greg had to smile. Anthea flushed.

“I just like to have a handle on what’s going on,” she said. “Someone has to, and I’m used to keeping track of everything.”

“And you are very good at it,” Mycroft added. “Without you, England would surely have collapsed.”

Greg was pretty sure Mycroft wasn’t exaggerating either. Anthea didn’t preen, exactly, but she did look pleased at the admission.

He was also aware that Mycroft was only picking at his meal, even when he wasn’t actively participating in the conversation. He shot a questioning look at his boyfriend, and Mycroft evaded it with another question towards the women. “Have you sorted out the guest list yet?”

“Why?” Stella asked. “So you can screen them all to make sure they aren’t _persons of interest_?”

“I suggested nothing of the sort.” At Stella’s look, he said, “Someone was very nearly murdered at the last wedding I was invited to. Given I’ll actually be attending this one, I’d much rather that not be the case.”

“You and me both. Not exactly a memory I want of my special day.”

Greg remembered the event Mycroft was referring to clearly. It was hard to forget a speech like Sherlock’s. Even the cringe-worthy, second-hand-anxiety-inducing bits that had nothing to do with the murder. “Well, on the bright side, if it does happen, you will have a police officer on the scene.”

Stella laughed. “That’s true. Although I’d hate to make you work if you take the time off.”

“That makes two of us.” They shared a grin. Yeah, he definitely liked Stella.

Anthea’s phone rang loudly, and it took a lot of effort for Greg not to jump. She answered it smoothly, a frown creasing her forehead, and then rolled her eyes in Mycroft’s direction. “I’ll just be a moment,” she told them, and made her way to the door to take the call outside.

Stella stood up too. “While she’s gone, I think I’ll pop to the loo. Be right back.”

With the table suddenly vacant, Greg turned to Mycroft. “Are you okay?”

Mycroft frowned, head tilted. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’ve hardly touched your food.”

Mycroft opened his mouth and then closed it again. “I find I’m not much in the mood for eating today. Nerves, I think.”

“Nerves?”

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “If you recall, the last attempt at this outing went very poorly. Warranted or not, it is difficult to entirely shake that sense of foreboding.”

Greg studied him. “You’re sure that’s it? This isn’t about-”

“I am not trying to deny myself anything, Gregory.” Mycroft’s tone wasn’t harsh, although he did sound a bit exasperated. “I appreciate the concern, but I truly am fine. I will finish the meal, I promise, if a bit slowly. I may even have dessert, if you’re amenable to sharing one.”

Greg waited a heartbeat, but when Mycroft didn’t show any signs of insincerity, he smiled and leaned over, kissing his cheek. “Alright, love. I trust you. But you’re going to have to read the dessert menu to me.”

“It’s a deal.” Mycroft returned the fond expression and the kiss, although his was a peck to Greg’s lips just in time for Stella to rejoin them.

“Don’t stop on my account.”

Greg and Mycroft separated, neither blushing but still slightly chagrined. Anthea stepped back in a moment later, dropping into her seat in a way that would probably look clumsy on anyone less graceful. She sighed theatrically. “You would think, just every once in a while, people would listen when you request an evening off.”

“Work?” Greg asked. He glanced towards Mycroft. “Do you need to go?”

Anthea smirked at him. “You won’t get rid of me that easily. No, I made it very clear to...someone that Mycroft and I would deal with his crisis tomorrow morning.”

Stella’s face fell. “I thought you weren’t going to have to work this weekend?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Anthea reassured. “It’s just a little thing. Shouldn’t take long to wrap up at all; a few hours, tops.” She looked toward Greg. “That goes for Mycroft as well. I’ll return him to you before you know it.”

Greg shrugged. “I’m used to the weird hours.”

Stella sighed. “Doesn’t make them better, though.”

“Baby…”

Stella patted Anthea’s hand, even as Greg glanced at Mycroft, who seemed indifferent to the pet name since it wasn’t directed at him. She smiled, and it was a little sad, but mostly fond. “I know. You have to save the world. I get it. Just don’t forget to come home sometimes too.”

“With you there, how could I forget?” Anthea leaned in close, squeezing her fiance’s hand. “It’s the best part of my day.”

It felt too intimate a moment to interrupt, so Greg turned his attention back to finishing dinner. As unpronounceable as the name had been to his tongue, it really was delicious. The moment was instead interrupted by the waiter, stopping by to ask about the quality of their meals and if they were interested in dessert. Mycroft was still picking slowly at his plate, so they sent him away again, but they did ask for dessert menus to be brought back in a little while.

While Mycroft finished - Greg noticed Anthea shooting him concerned glances as well, and was again grateful not to be the only one looking out for his boyfriend’s well-being - Stella turned the conversation to family, asking Greg if he saw his often.

He shrugged. “Not often enough, according to my mum, but yeah. My brother and sister I see a couple times a year, my mum and dad a bit more often, and my kids are still young enough that they like to pop in for more than just holidays. They’ve been a bit busy this year, but hopefully I’ll see a bit more of them this summer, when Em is out of school.”

Stella looked surprised. “I didn’t know you had children.”

Greg hesitated, glancing at Mycroft, who was studying his plate as he ate, looking innocently like he wasn’t paying attention. He cleared his throat. “Er, yeah. Two daughters. Em’s twenty-three and Lucy is twenty-six.”

“I don’t mean to pry-”

Greg laughed and looked down. “No, it’s okay. I love to talk about them. They’re great girls, and I wouldn’t trade them for the world.”

“Even if their mother is a demon from the depths of hell.”

Stella blinked and Greg sighed. “Mycroft isn’t exactly fond of my ex. Neither am I, for obvious reasons.”

Stella nodded in understanding. “Demon ex-girlfriends? I’ve had a few of those.”

“Demon ex-wife, actually,” Greg corrected.

“Well, I don’t have any of those.” They both chuckled, and it drew a smile out of Anthea, although Mycroft’s expression remained dour and he stabbed his next bite with a bit more force than necessary. Greg reached under the table and took his hand.

“Honestly, I’d rather not talk about her. My girls, on the other hand…”

Stella accepted the shift back into safer territory. “What do they do?”

“Well, Lucy’s an accountant. She’s right clever, probably more so than her old dad. And Em’s going to change the world some day. She’s studying to be a lawyer. I’m pretty sure she and Mycroft have been concocting some kind of evil scheme-”

“I met her on one single occasion, and we were hardly scheming. I merely offered her some of my connections, should she need them.”

“Sounds like a scheme to me,” Stella teased.

“With his resources, it might as well be,” Anthea added.

“If everyone is going to gang up on me, I think I might be inclined to cut this dinner short.”

“No!” Greg protested immediately. “Come on, sweetheart, you know we’re just teasing you.”

The smallest smile cracked through Mycroft’s stormy expression, and Greg caught the twinkle in his eyes. “Well,” Mycroft said. “I suppose I could hold off until everyone has had dessert.”

Anthea groaned, wrapping her arm around her stomach, but Stella perked right up, looking around for the waiter.

Mycroft did read Greg the dessert menu, and then did the ordering himself - in perfect Italian, the bastard. And he ate a full half of it too, which satisfied Greg’s concern completely and, although she hid the expression quickly, apparently surprised Anthea.

Greg suspected Mycroft might berate himself later for it, but at the moment he seemed fine, so Greg was willing to call it a win. Still, he’d make sure he didn’t catch Mycroft of the treadmill tonight. Just in case.

They talked a bit more about family; Anthea had very little to begin with, and had mostly been disowned after bringing Stella home the first time - “They’re traditionalists in many ways. I’m not sure which was worst in their eyes; that’s she’s French, black, or a woman.” - and Stella was very close with hers emotionally, if not physically - “They’re coming from France for the wedding, but I haven’t seen most of them in a few years now. Everyone just gets so busy, you know.” But as the night started to creep on, and other patrons gradually trickled out of the establishment, not to mention the waiter started eyeing them and the check he had left on their table, the group had to accept that returning home was in the increasingly near future.

Mycroft reached for the bill first, but Anthea beat him to it, and there was a moment of narrowed eyes, a battle of facial expressions, before Stella rolled her eyes and said, “If he wants to pay for dinner, let him. You can get it next time.”

Anthea relinquished the check grudgingly, and Mycroft smiled smugly at her. Greg rolled his eyes too. “Alright, children, I think it’s bedtime.”

“We are not children, Gregory-”

“Well, you’re acting like it. Come on, love. Pay the bill, let Anthea get it next time, and let’s all go home, shall we? You two have work tomorrow morning and I don’t want to deal with you being grumpy because you’re sleep deprived.”

“I am never _grumpy_.” Mycroft sounded affronted, even as he placed a few notes on the checkpad. The waiter snatched it almost instantly, and Mycroft stood, straightening his waistcoat.

Everyone else followed by example, and Greg rebutted, “Yes, you are, and you know it. It’s alright. It’s cute. Most of the time.”

Mycroft still looked, well, grumpy, especially as Stella snickered and Anthea failed to suppress a smile, but he accepted the consolation and Greg’s arm, leading them out of the restaurant.

On the pavement, they paused, and Greg reached for Stella’s hand. “Well, it was great to meet you.”

She shook it. “It really was. We should do this again sometime.” She shot a sly glance towards Mycroft. “Although maybe not for a while. I have a feeling Mycroft is probably done with double dating for the foreseeable future.”

“I can hear you, you know.”

“Which is why I said it.” Stella grinned. “Thank you for coming out, Mycroft. At this rate, I just might see you again before the wedding.”

“We’ve got a couple months until then,” Greg said. “I’m sure I can coax him out of the house at least once.”

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, with the right incentive, I certainly would be amenable.” He smiled, and squeezed Stella’s hand. “It was good to see you again under better circumstances. Have a safe drive home. Anthea. Goodnight.”

Anthea nodded and took Stella’s hand, guiding her away. Mycroft turned to Greg and gestured to the black car waiting at the kerb. “Shall we?”

“You’re sure this is the right one?” Greg teased.

Mycroft’s face darkened just a shade. “Gregory, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make that sort of joke.”

Greg sobered. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s quite alright.” He opened the door. “After you.”

Greg slid into the car, and Mycroft followed after him. Overall, it had been a nice night, but as they pulled away from the kerb, there was one thing still bothering Greg. “What was that, back there?”

“A great many things happened ‘back there,’ my darling. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Why did you hesitate before saying I’d be your date to their wedding?”

Mycroft’s eyes widened. His expression changed swiftly, turning forcibly neutral as he looked away. “I wasn’t sure you’d be interested in coming.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s...big.”

Greg blinked and frowned. “Love, I’m not following.”

Mycroft heaved a sigh. “Taking someone as your date to a wedding indicates one of two things. Either it’s a last minute sort of thing, which announces to the world that you are very tacky if you’re willing to have a person of no importance in your life mar the photos and memory of someone else’s ‘special day,’ or it’s an indication of...permanence. A long term commitment.”

“So?”

“So, planning to go to a wedding together, usually done months in advance, is a sign of a series relationship, one where you expect to still be together that far in the future.”

Greg’s frown deepened. “But...that’s the plan, isn’t it? I thought we...I mean.” Horror suddenly crashed over him. “Are you...do you not want…”

Panic flashed across Mycroft’s face. “That’s not what I meant! I have no intentions of ending this relationship any time in the near future or, if I may be frank, ending it at all. I just…” He sighed. “I have moments of doubt, darling. We’ve been through so much in so short a time already and it occurs to me sometimes that eventually it may...it might prove to be too much for you. An unsatisfying partnership.”

Greg turned that over. “So, what, you didn’t want to just assume I’d go to the wedding with you...because you think I might break up with you before then?”

Mycroft studied his lap. “As I said, I have doubts.” Greg opened his mouth to retort, and Mycroft held up his hand. “Before you attempt to reassure me, I do understand that they are unfounded. You have given me every indication that you consider this to be a permanent arrangement, as much as any relationship can be considered permanent when neither party can see into the future, and I am inclined to feel the same. But that does not mean I will not have occasional doubts. It is not a reflection on you, Gregory. It is merely my habitual way of thinking, and I promise you I am trying to change it.”

Greg nodded. “Alright.” He hesitated. “Just to be clear, you do still want me to be your date to the wedding, right?”

“Very much so.” Mycroft gave him a small smile. “I am not much one for weddings, and it will be a great relief to have you by my side. I find socializing much less tedious when you are present.”

“That’s sweet. But I think we’ve had enough socialization for the day, don’t you? I’m looking forward to changing out of these clothes, having a hot shower, and maybe, if I’m very lucky, having a bit of a snog with my gorgeous boyfriend.”

Mycroft’s smile widened, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “I think that can be arranged.”

“Great. Not too late though, because you have work in the morning.”

“I’m sure you’ll wear me out thoroughly.”

“Is that an innuendo, Mr. Holmes?”

“I do believe it is, Detective Inspector. What are you going to do about it?”

Greg’s answer was to kiss him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty sure I've mentioned the overstimulation thing before. For those of you not aware, it's one of the symptoms of, among other things, anxiety like Mycroft has. I didn't tag this as dubcon because he is still fully consenting, but if anyone feels its borderline I can add the tag.  
> And I'm so sorry guys, but I need to take a brief hiatus (maybe a month...ish?) because there's another project I actually need to work on. Hang in there, we're far from done, and I'll be back to this as soon as I can. I love you guys for sticking with this, and thank you so much!


End file.
